


ouroboros

by moonweaver



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Same School, Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26133424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonweaver/pseuds/moonweaver
Summary: they each feel jealousy a little differently.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Kuroo Tetsurou, Akaashi Keiji/Tsukishima Kei, Bokuto Koutarou/Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Koutarou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 37
Kudos: 112





	ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> I realised after finishing this that my descriptions of the seasons do not match up with the Japanese school year. Please ignore this :')
> 
> This work is set in a same school alternate universe!

**i. spite**

Yamaguchi has decided to join the basketball club. It’ll be a nice change of pace, he says, and there’s already another student in his English class who’s joining even though he’s practically shrimp-sized.

“I’m not going to join a sports club,” Tsukishima says flatly, drawing a big black X on the questionnaire. “It’ll be a waste of time.”

“I don’t know,” Yamaguchi says beside him, where he’s dragged his chair over. “It’s better than studying all the time, right?” He sticks his nose into Tsukishima’s space, looking at the club interest form all first-years have to fill out. “Why not just pick volleyball again? You wouldn’t have to learn anything new…”

“It’s _high school_ , of course they’d make us do new stuff,” he mutters. Stupid Yamaguchi.

“I guess. I heard the team’s scary good, nothing like our middle school one. Maybe it’s for the best you avoid it,” Yamaguchi says, and then drops his pencil, waving his hands frantically in front of him. “Not that you’re not good, Tsukki!”

“I’m not _avoiding_ _it_ ,” Tsukishima says peevishly.

So that’s how he finds himself in the volleyball gym on the first Wednesday afternoon of the school year. He’s examining the net—if he stretched his arms up his fingers would poke over the top—when he feels eyes on him. It makes him itch.

Those predatory gazes turn out to belong to the volleyball team’s co-captains (why would they need two captains?) who seem to have fixed on him for some unknown reason. Tsukishima regrets his decision to even enter the gym the moment they open their mouths and a whirlwind of just _sound_ assaults him.

Unfortunately when he snubs them they aren’t perturbed. They deliver their address to the newcomers in an equally bombastic fashion and Tsukishima can feel himself edging away to the door when another boy approaches the team, his face totally impassive. It’s that startling contrast in character that stops Tsukishima from sidling away entirely.

The boy’s eyes are a cool steel-blue. He doesn’t give any enthusiastic speeches that the co-captains have, but introduces himself as vice captain and states his hopes for the team quietly and concisely. It’s a balm for Tsukishima’s ears.

Encircled by the two storm-tossed oceans, Akaashi Keiji is like an island. 

* * *

Tsukishima quickly grows to see Akaashi as more of a captain than the two third-years. It’s definitely to do with his methodical mind, and even more to do with the way he deals so easily with Bokuto and Kuroo, who actually turn out to be his closest friends.

Tsukishima would like to be objective and calm—he’s even known as an apathetic person—but Bokuto and Kuroo get on his nerves so very easily. He finds himself automatically on the defensive whenever he sees them, always readying blistering insults in the back of his mind. Why _me_ , he thinks in exasperation as he dodges a slap on the back, snarking at Bokuto to stop calling him _Tsukki_ and keep his gorilla arms to himself.

He has no idea how Akaashi can keep his head. The vice captain is usually unaffected by the chaos, never rising to taunts but always ready with some flat remark that’s more effective than gunfire. Tsukishima can only sometimes shut down the co-captains, but Akaashi can just roll his eyes and the two deflate.

“You’ve had a lot of practice?” he asks one afternoon as they’re rolling up the nets.

Akaashi slides his gaze over to where Bokuto is attempting to handstand on Kuroo’s shoulders as he stretches. “You could say that,” he sighs.

A typical Akaashi answer, short and a bit vague. Tsukishima doesn’t mind that, though.

Since playing middle school volleyball, Tsukishima has always looked at the courts and the players like equations. Sure, there are variables like _emotions_ , but once he pins down a pattern and knows what to watch for, he’s pretty good at reacting when executing his blocks. Looking at Akaashi as he directs the flow of the game all from a single position as _setter_ , Tsukishima sees the vast difference in their analytical ability.

Akaashi Keiji is not Japan’s top fourth ace. He is not a monster of a player, nor someone born with innate physical prowess. But he is an exceptional human being.

His calm, as well, is a magnetic force. Whenever Tsukishima feels himself getting exasperated, he just has to glance at Akaashi to regain his composure. It becomes a bit of a good luck charm during practice when he has to navigate around a pair of exuberant captains, helping him to (occasionally) let their sly digs go past unacknowledged. 

However, during one afternoon when Kuroo’s pressed him to stay for a few rounds of blocking practice, Bokuto manages to strike a nerve that not even Akaashi’s demeanour can repair. Tsukishima still doesn’t get why they’re so devoted to the club, because it’s just a mere blip in their high school career; he asks them as such. “We’re not even that strong of a school,” he adds.

“Say, Tsukki, do you enjoy playing volleyball?” Bokuto begins, hands on his hips.

“Huh? Well…” If he’s honest, “Not particularly.” Certainly not to their extent.

“Isn’t that just because you suck?” Bokuto challenges, cocky grin on his face. “I mean, your arms are like twigs. I’m worried I’ll snap ‘em!”

Sometimes when Tsukishima gets annoyed, he’ll get testy. When he gets _really_ pissed, everything becomes numb. He can feel his jaw creaking like ice as he gives Bokuto a stretched, artificial smile. “I’m still young and developing, you see,” falls from his lips like frozen glass, shattering upon the vinyl floor. He leaves the gym.

_Why do they have to care so much?_ he thinks as he stalks down the corridor. _It’s just a_ club _. Clubs don’t do anything to help you in life._ The numbness is still there but slowly receding away from his face, leaving prickles where the feeling comes back into his skin. Now he just feels irritated, with no outlet for his frustration to go.

“Tsukishima-kun,” a voice calls behind him. It’s only because it belongs to Akaashi that he stops.

“What.”

Akaashi comes up behind him and waits silently so Tsukishima is forced to turn around. The setter has his arms crossed, lips pressed tight together. Tsukishima readies himself for a lecture.

“Bokuto-san went too far,” Akaashi says instead. “Personal insults are a bit too much; I told him that. I want to ask you, though, what made you ask them that question?”

Tsukishima shrugs. “Isn’t it self-explanatory? They’re always pushing so hard, and for what? It’s just a club,” he says darkly. “It’s inconsequential in the greater scheme of things. When you’re older who’s going to be interested in what sport you played in high school? Why do they care so much?”

“I care as well.”

Tsukishima halts with whatever he’d been going to say next, abruptly feeling like he’s insulted Akaashi.

“I enjoy it,” Akaashi continues, arms still crossed, gaze unflinching. “I like playing with my friends. I like _winning_ with my friends. Practicing feels good, because it means I’m getting better.” He tilts his head slightly. “That’s not really the problem, though, is it?”

“They’re unrealistic, that’s the problem.” Saying farfetched things like _championships_ and _top in Japan_.

“It’s okay not to have stupidly grand aspirations—like a few people we know.” Akaashi tells him bluntly. “Does there have to be some impressive reason to want to try hard? Can’t it simply be for pride?”

Tsukishima finds himself wordless. Akaashi’s voice is filled with a steady conviction that he’s never heard there before, an emotion which steals its way into Tsukishima’s own head. The vice captain’s gaze pierces not through him but _into_ him and he feels he’s being stripped to the marrow of his bones.

“Think about it,” Akaashi says.

* * *

Tsukishima goes back the next day. Bokuto has calmed down, and there’s an apology in his eyes as he answers Tsukishima’s questions seriously. But it’s his remark about the _moment_ , a moment that would see someone hooked on volleyball, that sticks in Tsukishima’s brain like a splinter. _Would I ever be able to feel that_ , he wonders.

He continues attending practice. The obnoxiousness is dialled back a touch to allow some sensible guidance to come through. After a time, Tsukishima can admit to himself there’s something moderately—just moderately—cool about his co-captains, not that he’d ever confide that in Yamaguchi, much less tell _them_.

Bokuto and Kuroo are brash and devil-may-care by nature, but they each have a responsible, reliable side. It shows in Bokuto when he comforts an underclassman crying alone in the hallway, it shows in Kuroo when he stays in class during lunch breaks to tutor a friend failing chemistry. It truly presents itself when they play volleyball.

It must be something about competition that brings out that unwavering determination, Tsukishima thinks. (It also affects him because he hates to lose, especially when he’s realised there’s a likelihood he can win.) Kuroo rules the ground and is a shield at their back and frontlines; standing near Bokuto makes you feel you’ll also reach ineffable heights. The two of them unfurl the flag of the team’s morale. 

But Akaashi... Akaashi is the one who hoists it into the air. He’s the brain of the team, bringing them all together, but his skills aren’t relegated to just setting—he can spike well, and more than once he’s closed the sides Tsukishima’s left open in a block.

Tsukishima has to grow accustomed to Bokuto’s and Kuroo’s presence before he can like them, but liking Akaashi has never come into question.

Once he adapts, life moves on like there’d been no hurdle in the first place. As the school year goes by, Tsukishima is somehow integrated into their little circle. Three become four. He finds he and Kuroo work well together both on the court and when discussing academics. He takes it upon himself to correct Bokuto’s shitty music taste.

To his pleasure, he finds he and Akaashi have very similar interests outside of volleyball, from books to studying to music. When they talk nowadays Akaashi’s answers are less vague and more lengthy, and he even laughs a few times when Tsukishima lays down a few well-placed barbs at either third-year’s expense (which makes Tsukishima feel rather proud).

He’s now around them enough to see that Akaashi’s indifference to his friends’ antics isn't really indifference, but a fond tolerance that Tsukishima doesn’t _quite_ understand. Still, he can’t help but notice that Akaashi clearly respects them, _admires_ them despite however often he might grimace, and Tsukishima kind of wants to be thought of like that, too. 

* * *

Spring begins to awaken. Hints of pollen tickle his nose.

Yamaguchi was meant to come over after school, but had apparently confessed to the basketball team’s manager, Yachi-san, that day, and the two had blushed and stammered their way into planning a date the same afternoon. Typical Yamaguchi, Tsukishima thinks with a roll of his eyes, flailing about but still heading precisely where he wants to go.

That being so, he’s commuting back with the other three as usual. While their houses are all in the same direction, Tsukishima and Akaashi have to transfer halfway to a different line, so it would just be them for fifteen minutes before Tsukishima reaches his stop. The notion doesn’t displease him.

The train rocks as it changes tracks. Tsukishima, gazing out the window, doesn’t pay much attention to it. He’s watching Akaashi in the wide panes of glass—even in a washed out reflection, Akaashi’s dark mop of hair is still vividly clear. The colour of his eyes are imperceivable, but they’re trained very attentively on the iPod Bokuto’s showing him. The two are murmuring about some old school western band Tsukishima doesn’t personally approve of.

Tsukishima fiddles with the headphones around his neck. Maybe he should have found a new song last night.

The PA announces they’re approaching the station. Tsukishima turns and asks, “Do you want to stop by the conbini on the way?”

“Hm?” Akaashi looks up from where he’s been sharing earbuds with Bokuto. “Ah, I’m sorry, Tsukishima-kun. I promised Bokuto-san I’d help him with English this afternoon.”

Oh. That wasn’t unusual, yet—

He doesn’t like it.

Kuroo leans around behind Bokuto then, tapping Akaashi on the shoulder and asking a question Tsukishima can’t hear. Akaashi immediately turns to him, murmuring an answer.

It winds around his throat, then; coiling close and choking his airway, sinking its fangs into his jugular.

He nods, even though only Bokuto is still looking at him.

The venom of it pulses through his heart.

* * *

The sickening feeling persists throughout the week, sawing at him like a knife. It narrows to a fine point whenever he sees Akaashi, almost as if it wants to stab right through the dark-haired boy. Tsukishima catches himself when he feels those flashes of hatred, uneasy and unable to resolve why he’d ever consider Akaashi in such a way.

But it doesn’t let up. His wanting to spend time with Akaashi is now accompanied by a weird compulsion—some ugly part of him wants to see on Akaashi’s face a reflection of what Tsukishima’s feeling inside. But Tsukishima doesn’t understand _what_ he’s feeling inside.

He finds himself shoving Akaashi away but the next moment wanting to be near him. His moronic, contradictory urges manifest as _meanness_. He cycles rapidly between flat out ignoring Akaashi to requesting to share books at lunch, giving him the cold shoulder at Bokuto’s house to trying to sit next to him in the next five minutes. 

As a result Akaashi hardly seems to realise anything’s amiss, because as soon as Tsukishima does something spiteful he immediately works to rectify it. Above all, he cannot bring himself to lash that verbal whip on _Akaashi_ , of all people, so the resentment sticks to his insides and corrodes the lining of his chest.

He hurts.

He wants to hurt him.

He never wants to hurt him.

* * *

They don’t spend as much time together as before, but Tsukishima still sees Yamaguchi every day during classes. They’ve known each other since they were young—consequently, Yamaguchi can tell something’s up. He’d be the only one able to.

By the way Yamaguchi dithers around in their free period at the end of the day, he obviously wants to approach the issue. Tsukishima’s set on ignoring him—it’s worked before—but Yamaguchi’s grown bolder over the year. He twirls his pen through his fingers, drops it, picks it up and swoops on Tsukishima. “Is everything ok with you and the others?” he asks, clearly referring to the volleyball trio.

Tsukishima starts. “Yes, it’s fine,” he says, a shred too snappily.

By the narrowing of his eyes Yamaguchi has picked up on that, but his next question is totally unrelated. “Um. Do you like someone?”

“What? _No_ ,” Tsukishima says too forcefully.

Yamaguchi sits back with a startled breath. “You do,” he says wonderingly.

Tsukishima gnashes his teeth. Ever since he started dating Yachi, Yamaguchi has been fancying himself as some sort of expert on love but this time he’s _wrong_ , utterly _wrong_.

“Uh...who is it?” Yamaguchi asks in a tiny voice.

“Like I’d tell you,” Tsukishima snaps, then realises he’s given himself away. Not just to Yamaguchi, to _himself_. _Do you like someone? Do you like someone?_

He thinks of fangs sinking into his throat, of bitter toxicity oozing from his pores. _Do you like someone?_

Yamaguchi blinks, settling back on his chair. He must have seen something in Tsukishima’s face.

“Oi, Tsukki!”

Tsukishima jumps, whirling around to see Bokuto and Akaashi poking their heads in the classroom door. The teacher makes a disgruntled noise and is about to wave them off, when Bokuto raises his hands in the air like a surrender. “We’re just returning a textbook to Tsukishima-kun,” he says, bowing in apology and hissing, “‘Kaashi!” The first-years giggle.

Akaashi obediently holds out the textbook, an extra history volume Tsukishima had lent him. Tsukishima gets up from his desk and walks over, looking at Bokuto instead of Akaashi. “Thank you,” he says at the third-year. As he takes the book, Akaashi’s fingers graze against his and his heart leaps into his throat.

The teacher badgers the two to get going. They back away obediently, Bokuto lifting a hand and grinning toothily. “See you after school, Tsukki!”

Tsukishima watches them leave. Their backs are thrown into shadow as they walk away, then Akaashi hunches his shoulders in laughter at something Bokuto says. The sound travels back to Tsukishima, becoming part of the poison lingering in his veins.

Tsukishima realises _oh, so this is liking someone._

**ii. despair**

Kuroo and Bokuto are similar people. They are both tumultuous and hot-blooded, chaotic and charismatic, sweeping up others with their whirlwinds and tearing ahead without a glance back. However, underneath the disorder is a strong current of reliability—they may be the leaders, but they’re also the cornerstones.

Yes, they are similar. They are not the same.

Akaashi knows this better than anyone. He’s only been friends with the two for a year and a half, but from the very beginning it was obvious they weren’t the peas in a pod people made them out to be.

Bokuto is a blindingly bright light that can plunge into the deepest darkness at the drop of a hat, simply because he allows himself to feel everything so intensely. (Akaashi could never imagine opening himself up to the world like that.) He’s hare-brained and reckless, but also responsible and unexpectedly caring, always making sure to check up on his friends and team members. A consequence of being so emotional is that he is empathetic to a startling degree.

Kuroo is something else entirely.

Bokuto soars through the sky; Kuroo prowls the ground. He’s watchful and alert, always thrumming with a constant energy only restrained by the barrier of his skin. He wields words like a whip, either to command the atmosphere from despairing to determined or to goad his targets into seeing red. However, his hot-bloodedness is his hubris, for if someone pushes his buttons in return Kuroo will lash back without reservation.

But when he’s fully in control of himself, Kuroo is deliberate, knowing exactly where to look and how to move. Power winds through the cords of his muscles, both frightening and reassuring because to have that strength behind you makes you feel the entire _world_ is on your side. Even when the pace of a rally escalates to dizzying speeds, you never have to watch your back because he’ll be right there.

(Whenever Akaashi hears a solid receive followed by Kuroo shouting his name, it’s one of the best things he’s ever heard in his life.)

Akaashi watches everyone on the court because it’s his job. The view he likes the most is when he’s on the backlines, watching their blocking wall rotate to the front. In this position Kuroo stands crouched, ready to jump, untamed hair more animalistic than anything. The broad muscles of his back are tense beneath his uniform. It’s the posture of a middle blocker ready to kill any spikes sent his way.

There will be fleeting moments during games when Akaashi wants to be on the other team, to have Kuroo bear down on him.

* * *

Akaashi falls in love with Kuroo during his first year, when he walks into the library and sees his upperclassman sitting at a desk frowning over a make-up exam. Math, Akaashi guesses, judging by the calculator and ruler sitting on a nest of eraser rubbings.

Kuroo has a deep furrow on his brow, not from frustration but from intense concentration that Akaashi’s familiar with from their volleyball matches. It’s an utterly singular focus that shuts out everything beyond the bubble he’s made for himself. Akaashi knows if he stands next to Kuroo, the boy wouldn’t notice him at all.

The frown disappears. Kuroo’s lips curl up in a little smirk of satisfaction as he makes a decisive scribble on the page. The sudden change in the lines and planes of his face has Akaashi’s heartbeat thudding in his ears. He doesn’t understand.

Kuroo glances up; sees Akaashi staring at him from across the room. He winks.

Akaashi breathes in sharply.

* * *

Kuroo and Bokuto have always been joined at the hip. Akaashi knows he can’t come between them so he settles for drifting behind them like a shadow, feeling quite stupid because he’s a year yonger and likely setting them up for ridicule. Kuroo and Bokuto automatically inspire respect, however, so there’s no overt jabs or sneers that come their way. Nobody mocks Akaashi either, which could also be attributed to the two of them—they are many things, and fiercely protective is one of them.

Once he reaches his second year, they’ve come to be recognised as an inseparable trio. They hang out in the hallways between classes, corral together at practice, walk to the station together after school and club is over. Lazy summer afternoons during vacation are spent at Bokuto’s house, draped over vinyl floorboards with melting ice packs pressed to their brows. They’ll go beetle-hunting at the giant park nearby despite being boys in their mid-teens, where Kuroo will drop stink bugs down Bokuto’s shirt and run from his flailing net. Sometimes they’ll travel out to Kanagawa for the beaches and Kuroo’s hair will go wavy from all the salt and sand, and Akaashi’s throat will be coarse from laughing.

He likes it when they rely on him, too. Akaashi’s the smartest of the three, tutoring them in English more often than not, although Kuroo just about has him beat when it comes to math and chemistry. When it comes to volleyball they’ll ask his input for positioning and strategy, although in his opinion Kuroo is leagues above him in being analytical. Between the two of them co-captaining he feels unnecessary as vice, but Bokuto claps him on the shoulder and Kuroo ruffles his hair, saying they couldn’t do without him. Akaashi doesn’t really believe it, but he likes the feel of Kuroo’s hand on his head anyway.

Not that he’d ever say so out loud.

These are the kinds of thoughts he keeps caged tightly within him, fluttering and shrill, wings beating uselessly against the bars. To give voice to any of them would be opening that cage door and having them get shot down by arrows, plucked clean and served up to hungry, jeering mouths.

He looks at Kuroo in the early mornings, the sleepy afternoons, the dusky evenings as they walk together to the station. It’s on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it down.

When Tsukishima is integrated into their little group during Akaashi’s second year—mostly thanks to Akaashi himself, according to Bokuto—he feels their dynamic subtly shift. The blonde first-year is thoughtful and book-smart in the ways that Akaashi is, but he’s witty and sharp in all the ways Akaashi isn’t. Bokuto and Kuroo love it, love needling him, and Akaashi doesn’t know how to wrench Kuroo’s focus back. He’s too scared to even try.

Tsukishima ends up talking with Akaashi a lot by default. Even though Akaashi wanted to reject him—still resents him a little—he finds the middle blocker is good company. They have similar interests and aren’t compelled to be _loud_ all the time. In fact, Tsukishima’s veiled insults can be very amusing. Akaashi steps back, observing the trio become a quartet.

Consequently he’s forced to face a stark reality: he can’t return barbs like Tsukishima does; he doesn’t have it in him to be so coldly condescending. He can’t match Bokuto in sheer explosive energy. He doesn’t have what it takes to make Kuroo _look at him_.

The jealousy lingers in his throat like an infection, cutting soft inner flesh with each breath he takes. At times when they’re alone he reaches the verge of coughing it up but _fear_ cascades down his windpipe, washing confessions back to the stagnant puddles they come from.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, sun hanging low in the sky as they leave school. Practice finished an hour ago, but they stayed longer for extra training. Akaashi still hasn’t found the absolute perfect toss to give Kuroo. He feels the bruises on his palms sting as he holds his shoulder bag.

Tsukishima walks beside him, headphones clamped around his ears as he shuts everyone out. He hasn’t been talkative today. Akaashi stares at the lines of Kuroo’s back.

The cherry blossoms bloom, pale pink effervescence haloing the trees.

* * *

Sometimes Akaashi gets lost in his own head.

He’s usually good at thinking things through, contemplating where each step will bring him. This quality proves very useful for his team, where tactics are the backbone of how they attack and defend. Akaashi can look at the court and figure out both sides. His level-headedness allows him to examine both plays and players from an objective viewpoint without getting caught up in a frantic emotional rhythm.

An observant nature is a double-sided blade. He’s also very introspective, which can cause more harm than good. Akaashi will consider a thread of himself, then he will follow it down into the snarled mess in the centre of his being. Here, he cannot move without webs winding around his ankles; here, every pluck of the string causes a thousand more to tangle. He thinks and thinks and cannot sleep at night, thoughts tripping over each other like a missed weave on a loom. In his quest to understand himself he ends up more lost than ever.

Kuroo is calculating, and Akaashi wants to be solved.

* * *

As spring reaches its peak, the last of the cherry blossoms fall off the trees and are crushed underfoot.

They’re at Bokuto’s house on a Friday afternoon—it’s the most convenient place to meet since he lives between them all. Kuroo, Bokuto, and Akaashi are battling it out on Mario Kart (Kuroo winning by a laughable margin), while Tsukishima takes up most of the couch with his long legs, leaving a space large only enough for Akaashi to sit. Kuroo and Bokuto are perched cross-legged in front of them.

Bokuto yells in fury as he crashes into a banana peel, of all things. Tsukishima sniggers. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“I’ll make you eat those words, Tsukki,” Bokuto threatens without taking his eyes off the screen.

Kuroo wins the game fifteen seconds later, pink Peach cheering on her pink motorbike. Kuroo whoops too, pumping his fist in the air. Akaashi’s Luigi comes fourth. Bokuto trails in dead last, Bowser Jr. sulking in his little race kart.

Without warning, Kuroo tilts his head back, looking at Akaashi upside-down. Akaashi can see all the way down his neck. “You wanna swap with Tsukki, or should I?” Kuroo asks, because Bokuto had sat on the fourth controller last week and broken it.

Akaashi stares at Kuroo’s sharp jawline, the curve of his lower lip. A hot flush creeps up the back of his neck. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he says instead, knocking his controller to the floor as he quickly stands and heads out to the hallway.

“If we’re taking a break, I’ll grab more snacks,” he hears Kuroo say. Footsteps leave in the opposite direction.

In the bathroom, Akaashi splashes water on his face and refuses to look in the mirror. He doesn’t need a reminder of how pathetic he’s being. Every time Kuroo bumps his bare shoulder against Bokuto’s or reaches back to flick Tsukishima’s knee, Akaashi feels like he’s swallowing glass. Stupid, stupid. They’re all friends. _Look at me_. He can’t do anything that would upset their camaraderie. _Look at_ me. 

He feels water drip off his bangs, getting stuck in his lashes. He scrubs a hand over his eyes.

The bathroom door creaks behind him as he goes back into the hallway. Kuroo is sauntering out of the kitchen, holding a bag of crisps that he’s already popped open and is munching on. Akaashi stares at him wordlessly.

Kuroo finishes his mouthful. “Hey, ‘Kaashi, you never said which of us was gonna swap with Tsukki.”

_Tsukishima_. He doesn’t want to talk about Tsukishima.

Kuroo looks at him quizzically, head tilted slightly to one side. His eyes, all golden-brown, are patient, waiting for Akaashi’s clumsy mouth to form words. He’s always so patient, rolling with Akaashi’s silences as much as he rolls with Bokuto’s endless conversation.

A confession crawls to the corner of his mouth. “Kuroo-san,” he says. His palms are clammy, not with tap water. “I nee—”

“Hurry up, you two!” Bokuto shouts, then laughs loudly at something Tsukishima’s said.

Kuroo scratches his ear. He’s looking toward the living room. “Sorry, what was that?”

Fear consumes him. Fear subsumes him.

“Nothing,” Akaashi says.

**iii. loathing**

Kuroo meets Bokuto Koutarou when he is eight. His mum tells him they have new neighbours, and half an hour later a boy falls out of a tree into his backyard.

“Who’re you,” Kuroo squeaks at him, because eight-year-old Kuroo is not good with people.

The boy sticks his head up from the pile of leaves he’s fallen into. There are twigs caught in his wild mess of hair. “I’m Koutarou!”

Kuroo clutches the volleyball he’d been playing with closer to his chest as if it’s a shield. He gapes wordlessly at this gremlin, who has sprung to his feet to brush himself off. The gremlin’s eyes alight on the volleyball and his grin grows massive, golden irises aflame.

“You play volleyball?” Koutarou demands, scrambling over to plant himself in front of Kuroo. He’s covered in scratches.

“Yeah.” With this light shining in his face, Kuroo forgets to be scared. Koutarou is radiating with excitement. “Uh, do you want to play with me?”

“Yeah!!” Koutarou jumps in the air, swishing his arm down in a mock-spike. “It’s been ages since I played! Like, a whole week! Mum wouldn’t let me because she said we had to pack! What’s your name?” he tacks on to the end of his spiel.

Kuroo keeps up with it all, eyes wide. “Kuroo Tetsurou.”

“Nice, Kuroo-kun! Let’s go!”

Koutarou positions himself to receive, dirty arms stretched out. Obediently, Kuroo jogs back a few paces, then tosses to him. Koutarou bounces it back neatly, Kuroo returns it, and then it hits Koutarou’s left forearm and careens upward, lodging itself right between a fork in the tree branches.

Koutarou blinked up at it owlishly. Kuroo can’t help it; he bursts into laughter. Koutarou just looks so _stupefied_. “Are you sure it was just a week?” he cackles.

“Shuddup, Kuroo-kun!” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he wheezes. “Hang on, I’ll get the ball.”

Kuroo scrambles up the tree, sliding out carefully onto the protruding branch. He glances down to see Koutarou has his hands over his mouth, frozen in place despite having romped through that very same tree just five minutes ago. Kuroo plucks the ball out of the branches, tosses it down, and nimbly swings himself after it, landing neatly on the balls of his feet.

Koutarou gapes at him in wonder. “You’re like a cat,” he laughs, “a kitty cat!”

* * *

He later finds out Koutarou’s full name is Bokuto Koutarou _,_ nonetheless he never calls him just _Bokuto_ , nor Bokuto calls him just _Kuroo_. They spend their childhood calling each other a mishmash of their last and first names and everything in between. Kuroo takes to calling him _owl_ because of the way his hair tufts up. Bokuto sticks with _kitty cat_.

* * *

Growing up alongside Koutarou feels like growing up alongside his other half. They go to the same primary school, marching along the Tama riverbank with long sticks in their hands like they’re climbing Mt. Fuji. They ride tandem on bicycles to middle school, fleeing from angry policemen with roars of laughter. If they ever argue, which happens fairly frequently but is never serious, they’ll have made up within the next hour at latest. They’re an equal match for each other—the greatest of rivals, the best of friends.

Their families joke that they’re basically _brothers_ , but that word has never felt natural to Kuroo. What does feel natural is when Koutarou smacks a wet kiss on his cheek on his tenth birthday—because “that’s what ‘Baa-chan did on my birthday!”—shoves a present into his arms and races him into the living room. It feels natural when they have sleepovers in the same bed, limbs thrown carelessly over each other because they’re both heavy sleepers who toss and turn like demons.

It comes to Kuroo when he is fourteen, in the middle of the night as easy as breathing. He wakes up from a restless dream, stumbles to the bathroom to get a glass of water, looks in the mirror and thinks that he loves Bokuto Koutarou. And then he goes back to sleep.

His feelings have not changed by morning.

* * *

Koutarou is a ridiculous, impossible individual. Normal people operate within established realms of possibility. They learn their limits and how to expand them, understanding what is feasible and what isn’t. Koutarou doesn’t seem to acknowledge he _has_ limits. That _any_ human being has limits. The glass ceiling simply does not exist.

Kuroo knows how to toe this line, to see beyond what he thinks he’s capable of, but he cannot do so as instinctively as his friend. He’s sure that if Koutarou could break the laws of physics, he’d have already done so.

When they enter the volleyball club as first-years in high school,  Koutarou looks at the court, closes his eyes, and says with unshakeable conviction, “I’m gonna be the top ace in all of Japan.”

“You haven’t even spiked a ball in here yet, first-year squirt,” a senior says, whacking  Koutarou’s head as he walks in behind them.

Staying true to his word, by their second year Koutarou has established himself as the team’s ace and one of the top ten in the country. This is predicted to rocket to top three in Japan once their third year kicks off, when he and Kuroo are going to be co-captains and the title of vice will be given to their quiet friend Akaashi. Koutarou’s strange, beautiful brain has decided what he will become, and so as with everything, he throws himself wholeheartedly into forging his path upward.

Kuroo joins him step for step, because they’re partners, after all. Even if Koutarou’s vision is one he can’t quite see, he’s got visions of his own. He knows how to create his own path straight forward even as Koutarou rises. 

_Give me your 120%,_ Koutarou says, and Kuroo gives all of himself.

_We are the blood_ , Kuroo says, and Koutarou is the heart they flow through.

* * *

“New blood for our brain, kitty cat,” Koutarou hisses at him when they walk into the gym for the first practice of the year. There’s already a group of uncertain first-years huddled together, but one tall, aloof boy stands apart from them, surveying the net with cool eyes. He reminds Kuroo a little of Akaashi, but Akaashi has never come across as so dismissive.

He shares a glance with Koutarou. They both grin. That first-year kid isn’t gonna know what hit him.

His name is Tsukishima Kei, he’s a middle blocker, and he’s shockingly easy to rile up. Kuroo quickly becomes addicted to it. Just a single snide call of “ _Tsukki_!” has the boy scowling, but he still refuses to put all his effort into practice. It vexes Kuroo and he can tell it frustrates Koutarou as well, because his friend gets that gleam in his yellow-gold eyes that he only gets when he’s trying to figure out why all his spikes are being scooped.

The co-captains put their heads together and come up with a plan almost instantly. It revolves around provocation, which is of course Kuroo’s speciality, so he dives into it headfirst. It works _amazingly_ well, until Tsukishima storms out one day and Koutarou looks like a kicked puppy left in the rain.

(Maybe that had been the first sign.)

Thank God for Akaashi, Kuroo thinks, who always saves the day somehow. The setter returns to the gym with satisfaction in his eyes. “I’m fairly sure he’ll come back tomorrow,” Akaashi tells them, “so _don’t_ do anything drastic until then.” Koutarou looks like he’s one step away from becoming a solar flare.

* * *

Things progress rather rapidly after that. Koutarou enthusiastically gives Tsukishima advice which actually appears to get through to the first year, because he’s actually analysing the court now in a way that takes into account those on his team, rather than just himself. He’s more receptive to Kuroo’s direction on blocking.

Even then, neither of them let up on calling him _Tsukki_ any chance they get. Kuroo sometimes feels Koutarou likes it a little too much, but who is he to judge? Tsukishima’s grown to tolerate the nickname, his grimace becoming more half-hearted as the year goes by.

Koutarou is...very dedicated to helping Tsukishima. Kuroo sees Akaashi realise it in the way he cocks his head when the captain drags Tsukki off to lecture him either about his plays or his fashion sense (it’s 50/50 which topic Koutarou will pick). Kuroo himself realises it in the way he feels his gut clench every time Koutarou pulls Tsukishima ahead as they walk to the train station, chattering endlessly about replays of V.League matches on YouTube.

Koutarou used to be all over everyone, nowadays he’s just all over Tsukishima. Kuroo likes teasing the middle blocker too, but as Koutarou’s zeal begins to eclipse his he slowly retreats, relegating his taunts to _Tsukki_ and occasional verbal prods during practice. It seems wrong, somehow, to try to co-opt Koutarou’s assiduity.

(This was the second sign.)

At eleven o’clock on Saturday morning, Kuroo looks through his window to see Koutarou’s blinds drawn. As he’s a late sleeper it isn’t unusual, so Kuroo rolls over in bed to wake him up with a phone call and bug him into hanging out.

Koutarou picks up on the first ring, speaking in a strangled voice that _sounds_ like he’s trying to be quiet. “ _Heya! I’m on the train right now, what’s up?_ ”

“You’re not at home?” Kuroo raises an eyebrow. Maybe he’s got family stuff on.

“ _Me’n Tsukki are heading to Tower Records_ ,” Koutarou says gleefully. “ _He says my music taste sucks. Whatever. Everyone knows Celine Dion is the real star of western music_.”

Tsukishima grumbles something inaudible.

“ _I’m gonna go now Tetsu, but let’s talk later!_ ”

Kuroo says, “Sure, seeya,” and the dial tone sounds halfway through his goodbye.

Koutarou’s hanging out with Tsukishima and he hadn’t breathed a word of it to Kuroo. There’s a weird tremor dancing across Kuroo’s chest that goes knock knock knock-ing at the walls of his heart. He suddenly has an irrational, unshakeable feeling that Koutarou has made some sort of _choice_.

But— why? Koutarou’s known Kuroo his whole life. They’ve been together since primary school. Why this guy, who showed up only half a year ago and despised Koutarou for a solid month?

It unsettles him. It gnaws at the corners of his brain.

(This was the third sign.)

* * *

One day it all falls into place. Or, to put it more accurately, it falls _apart_ and that is its place.

The four of them often eat lunch on the rooftop, sometimes joined by Tsukishima’s friend Yamaguchi when the basketball team isn’t having extra practice. Kuroo and Koutarou will usually be watching videos together on their smartphones while Akaashi and Tsukishima read one of their countless books from the library. Lately, though, Koutarou has started to hang over Tsukishima’s shoulder, complaining when he turns the page too quickly (which is every page). Tsukishima just tells him to shut up. Koutarou steals one of his strawberry candies.

As it’s summer now, they’ve forgone their usual rooftop hideaway and found a new place tucked under the stairs. The air conditioning unit that blows there makes it a place sacred to all students, but a silent law in the school marks it as their spot, so it’s always empty when they troop up there.

Today Kuroo is late to join them, having been held back by a teacher. When he rounds the corner he sees just the three of them sitting in a semicircle, drowsy in the artificial breeze. Music from one of their phones trickles through the air. Tsukishima and Akaashi are slowly eating, examining a large encyclopaedic-looking book together, while Koutarou is lounging against the wall looking sadly between them and his empty bento box. 

As Kuroo watches, Koutarou lets out an aggrieved sigh and props his elbow on his knee, resting his chin on his hand and leaning over into Tsukishima’s space. They’re so damn close. Kuroo’s fingers tighten on the textbooks he’s holding, some vast dark emotion swelling around him.

“Tsukki, I’m hungry,” Koutarou whines.

“We already gave you food, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says absently, at the same time as Tsukishima says, “That’s nice.”

Koutarou throws himself back onto Tsukishima’s lap, opening his mouth, clearly begging for food like a baby bird. His eyes, staring up beseechingly, are wide and adoring.

Kuroo feels it violently. It crashes into his chest like a sledgehammer, caving in his sternum. It fills his bones with cracks and fault lines until he feels so brittle he could shatter.

“Kuroo-san?” Akaashi has spotted him still hovering at the corner, rooted to the spot.

Tsukishima pushes Koutarou away unceremoniously without taking his eyes off his book. Part of Kuroo is relieved they aren’t touching anymore, the other part is indignant at Tsukishima’s careless disregard. He didn’t even look _down_.

“You’re late, Kuroo-san,” the blonde boy informs him, leafing through the pages. “Can you feed this guy?”

“Huh?” he says around the disintegration of his ribcage.

“Tell me you haven’t had lunch yet,” Koutarou wheedles him, flopping back against the wall with another heavy sigh directed at Tsukishima. He is ignored.

Kuroo cannot ignore him.

He ambles over, the very picture of carefree, and shoves some yakisoba bread in Koutarou’s face. “Eat up, you useless owl,” he huffs, feeling a fault line glue itself back together as Koutarou grabs at the bread with joyful hands.

“Always savin’ my life, Tetsu,” he mumbles around a mouthful of noodles.

Kuroo still can’t breathe properly. The fractures are spreading throughout his skeleton. He sits down heavily right between Koutarou and Tsukishima. “Check this out,” he says forcefully, throwing an arm around Koutarou’s shoulders and whipping out his phone to find some random Twitter video.

Koutarou leans into him oh so easily, because they’ve been doing this for years. It’s not a shock to be touching him so casually. Tingles sweep over his bare arm where it hugs Koutarou’s neck. His stomach rumbles quietly because he hasn’t eaten lunch.

They’re halfway through the video when a classmate pokes her head around the corner. “Bokuto-san? Oh, good, you’re here. Suzuki-sensei wants to see you.”

Koutarou sighs, ducking out from Kuroo’s arm and getting to his feet. “I guess I’ll see you guys later,” he says glumly, shuffling down the hall. Kuroo doesn’t blame him for moping—their history teacher is a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m going to go get ready for class,” Tsukishima announces once Koutarou has disappeared. “We have a test next period. Thanks for letting me read your book, Akaashi-san.”

“No problem,” Akaashi says as Tsukishima gathers his things. “Make sure Bokuto-san doesn’t spot you.”

“He keeps badgering me to jump higher,” Tsukishima grumbles, heading down the hall. “Does he want to break my elbows instead of my hands?”

Tsukishima’s exit leaves silence in his wake; it had been his phone playing the music before. Akaashi sighs, turning a page of his book.

Kuroo brings his knees up to his chest, resting his phone on them. “D’ya really think Kou’s spike could break an arm?” he asks Akaashi lightly.

Akaashi appears reflective. “Well, no, but Bokuto-san told me he’s always bugging Tsukishima-kun because he thinks he’s going to surpass him one day.”

“Tsukki could never compare to Kou,” Kuroo says sharply.

It doesn’t come out the way he meant it. The words were meant to be said flippantly, not to taste bitter and spiteful on his tongue.

Akaashi looks at him with narrowed eyes. Judging.

* * *

But Kuroo isn’t cruel. He can’t hate his friends, so he hates himself instead.

* * *

Koutarou wraps an arm around him as they walk. _Don’t touch me_ , Kuroo thinks, looping his own arm tightly around his best friend’s waist. 

Koutarou throws back his head and laughs uproariously at a snarky joke Kuroo makes. _Don’t listen to me_ , Kuroo thinks, laughing as well because Koutarou’s exuberance is infectious.

Koutarou hits a cross spike that just about dents the court and whips around to Kuroo first, throwing his arms in the air and yelling “ _Did ya see me, kitty cat?!_ ”

_Don’t call me that_ , Kuroo thinks, returning the high-ten with all his strength and making their palms turn crimson red.

Then Koutarou immediately bounds over to Tsukishima and Kuroo wants to drive something blunt through his stomach just so he can stop thinking.

_I’ve always been here_. He blindly stumbles through his front door that evening, vision red around the edges. _It’s always been us. Did I do something wrong?_

_Am I not enough?_

Kuroo lies awake into the small hours of the night, his hands twisted in his bedsheets. He can’t scrub the images flashing under the lids of his eyes like a movie reel. The flash of teeth in a sly smile. Hair tickling his cheek as _he_ leans in close under Kuroo’s arm. 

He imagines Koutarou before him.

He imagines Koutarou before him.

He imagines Koutarou over him, knee between his legs, pinning his wrists against the bed. His eyes are dark as he leans closer, breaths of exertion ghosting over Kuroo’s face. They’re equally strong, Kuroo knows that from their arm wrestling, but he would put up a fight because he’s not one to go easy. Thrash against Koutarou’s grip, use his thighs to try to overpower him and reverse their positions. It would be pointless because something in Kuroo wouldn’t really be trying at all.

He would yield.

_Fuck, you got me_ , he can hear himself panting up at sharp golden eyes and an equally sharp grin.

_Hell yeah I got you, kitty cat_ , Koutarou replies, and forces his thumb into Kuroo’s mouth, pressing against his teeth.

Kuroo wraps his hand around himself, thinking of black-white hair and a hurricane bound within a human form. He spills over with Koutarou’s name messy on his lips.

The light is off; his sweat-slick skin hidden under the darkness. Under its shroud he can forget where he is, separate himself from his body until he becomes an entirely different existence. He does not have to see the self-hatred on his fingers.

**iv. desperation**

Bokuto has been told he’s a force of nature. The atmosphere grows brick-heavy or blindingly light depending on his mood, and things become reality just because he cannot conceptualise failure. He pulls others in his wake, they say.

Yes, Bokuto pulls others in his wake, but Tsukishima Kei is the one he rises and falls toward.

One wouldn’t think that a mere first-year middle blocker would have a hold over a third-year ace. With his hands threaded before him and a slight hunch that’s a tall person’s habit more than anything, Tsukishima’s presence does not command attention the way Bokuto does. He’s disconnected from and dismissive of anything not in his immediate orbit, coolly refusing Bokuto’s begging for extra practice from day one, laughing when Akaashi reminds Bokuto he had dropped shy of being one of the top three aces in the country.

Bokuto grinds his teeth, spikes callouses into his palms. There is potential locked up behind all that height and disparaging veneer. As captain, it’s his responsibility to drag it out. He feels _compelled_ to drag it out, and to do that he needs to crash into Tsukishima’s trajectory with all the force of a comet off-kilter.

So Bokuto makes up his mind: he conceptualises, visualises, executes.

He enlists his co-captain and best friend’s help, because while his vice captain already gets along with Tsukishima to an extent, the two don’t exactly light fires under each other. Bokuto wants to see Tsukishima with his cunning eyes and powerful blocks, to draw forth the overwhelming glacial presence only hinted at behind his derisive smirks. He can almost picture the wild, unbridled look on Tsukishima’s face when he realises his _moment_.

He and Tetsurou take to calling him _Tsukki_ because of how his face twists at the nickname. Tetsu throws his provocations with the precision of poison darts, but Bokuto can strike nerves just as well. _Your blocks sure are weak_ , he observes, _Isn’t that just because you suck_ , he taunts, and Tsukishima scowls darker than he’s ever seen. Then it’s like the storm passes and a bright, insincere smile is emblazoned across his face. _I’m still young and developing, you see_ , the boy demurs and leaves, clearly pissed off.

Bokuto almost thinks he’s lost, but Akaashi goes and talks to Tsukishima because Tsukki respects the vice-captain like _he’s_ captain. So the next day Tsukishima comes back and Bokuto tells him about the _moment_. It seems that was the key to unlocking him in the end—he joins more practices and slowly begins to ask _Bokuto_ questions, to pay attention to _Bokuto_.

Bokuto’s chest swells with warmth—he attributes it to pride, because to see Tsukishima come into his own is a magnificent thing. As time goes on and the warmth creeps all over his heart like a fox nestling into tree roots, he distinctly suspects it may be more than pride. He knew what it felt like to be the focus of Tsukishima’s disdain, but now he knows what it’s like to be the object of his positive attention. It’s addicting, to have someone so very impressive taking your words to heart.

_Is this what Akaashi feels like_ , he wonders sometimes, because Tsukishima was always ready to listen to Akaashi’s opinions from the very beginning. 

Tsukishima asks him what he’s thinking when he spikes. He watches Bokuto intently through the net as they practice, turning that ice-cold scrutinising gaze on him because he’s trying to _learn_ him. It makes Bokuto’s pulse jump and his throat close up; he hits a spike all wrong and it rebounds into Konoha’s face.

But he can see clear as day that his efforts have paid off and then some. It’s gratifying when Tsukishima stays in the gym after official practice, it’s formidable when he begins to grow in leaps and bounds, looming up up _up_ over the net and completely forcing Bokuto’s hand.

Terrifying. Bokuto’s heart dangles on a fish hook. 

* * *

Bokuto isn’t stupid.

He knows Tsukishima has always liked Akaashi more than he or Tetsurou, simply because Akaashi is quiet, collected, and in control of himself. Tsukishima’s just as quiet but he still talks to Akaashi the most, asking him for help on his homework even though he surely knows the content, walking with him behind Bokuto and Tetsurou on the way to the train station. When they’re all trialling and refining new plays during practice, Tsukishima always asks Akaashi’s opinion first. The muted shine in his eyes goes deeper than respect for an upperclassman.

Bokuto isn’t blind.

He sees how Tsukishima looks at Akaashi even when there are people watching; maybe Tsukki doesn’t realise it himself. It’s serious and attentive because Tsukishima is truly hanging onto every word that comes out of the setter’s mouth, even when it doesn’t particularly make sense. His eyes seek out Akaashi during practice, even when they’re split into groups and Akaashi’s on the other side of the gym. They’ll group together after a game, sweaty and exhausted, and Tsukishima will watch Akaashi gulp down his water while forgetting the bottle held halfway to his own mouth.

It sends frustration coursing through him like whitewater. He’s doing all he can to keep Tsukishima paying attention to him: hollering instructions and encouragement whenever they’re playing, throwing his arm around Tsukishima’s neck from behind and dragging him off to have lunch, trying more than his utmost best to slam spikes around those cage-like hands. He even persuades Tsukishima to accompany him to Tower Records one humid Saturday morning by insulting his choice of music. All of this is underpinned with louder and louder calls of “ _Tsukki!_ ”—maybe it’s coming off as desperate. 

Sometimes Tetsu sends him sidelong glances that he thinks Bokuto doesn’t notice. Yet as long as Tsukishima’s eyes alight on him, sacrificing his dignity is worth it.

But he’s Bokuto Koutarou, not Akaashi Keiji, and he can never be Akaashi Keiji.

He’s tried working out his vexation through exercise, but it doesn’t help. He lies sweaty and panting on asphalt, limbs shaking from being pushed past their limit, and the horrible vacuum in his gut is _still there_. He feels a wild surge of hatred toward Akaashi— _he’s always looking at_ you—that evaporates just as quickly and he’s horrified he could ever feel like that toward his friend.

Despair follows on its heels like a hound, howling all the way up to his heart because he is so fundamentally different to whom Tsukishima loves.

But Bokuto cannot conceptualise failure. He’s always operated on an _if I can see it happen I can make it happen_ basis and it’s never let him down. Even when a slump strikes him halfway through a match there is an underlying knowing: just as the sun brightens the day and the moon illuminates the night, success is a certainty.

It’s only a matter of time before he makes up his mind.

“I like you, Tsukki,” he says one day as they’re filling up water bottles at the fountain. It’s the middle of summer, humidity blanketing Tokyo in a suffocating embrace. The sky is hazy with cloying dust and cruel sunlight.

“I don’t like you as a friend. Shit, I _mean_ , I do like you as a _friend_ , but I also really _like_ _you_ ,” Bokuto finishes helplessly, putting emphasis on all the wrong words because by God, blurting something out is better than keeping it locked up inside him forever. 

Tsukishima’s expression is unreadable. He adjusts his grip on the water bottle basket.

“I can’t return your feelings,” he says bluntly. He does not frown; he does not smile.

Bokuto feels the bottom of his heart drop, followed by the rest of it, crashing somewhere in the pit of his stomach. There is a great yawning hollow where it was before.

“I’m sorry,” Tsukishima says, and leaves.

He remains there by the fountain, staring at the gym Tsukishima’s returned to. Sweat beads around his temple; slides down the side of his face. The cicadas are deafening.

Tetsu comes out after a while and spots him immediately. Concern is etched on his features as he lopes over and asks, “Did something happen between you and Tsukki?”

Bokuto wonders what Tsukishima was like when he went back into the gym. Likely closed off and evasive. Maybe he would talk to Akaashi. Maybe he would talk to no one.

“I,” Bokuto starts. His mouth is dry. “I...said something to him.”

Tetsu lets out a long, heavy breath. His eyes are dark. “You told him you like him.”

Bokuto looks at him in a shock that quickly resolves, because of course Tetsu would know who he likes. They’ve known each other their entire lives; they’re open books to each other. “I did,” he says in a very small voice.

Tetsu ducks his head, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He sighs again and then gestures for Bokuto to give him the water bottle carrier. “I’m sorry, Kou,” he says lowly, for it’s obvious what Tsukishima’s answer was.

“I’ll get over it,” Bokuto says with watery eyes.

Tetsu looks up sharply like he’s going to continue, but at that moment their coach’s voice erupts from the gym, bellowing at them to get back inside. They have to obey to avoid his ire, half-jogging back in awkward silence.

From the moment he steps back inside everyone can tell he’s off his game. Bokuto has always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, after all. He cannot smile, cannot reassure Konoha and Akaashi he’s alright. He knows he looks a thousand times worse than when he’s stuck in a spiking or serving rut—this time he’s completely unable to pay attention to the game. There’s a tall blonde middle blocker sitting on the bench and Bokuto’s collapsing in on himself, a black hole opening up in his lungs.

He misses one spike, then another. The third ball sails over his head. He watches it go; when he looks down, Akaashi is glancing between him and Tsukishima.

Annoyed, their coach orders him to the bench. Bokuto obeys numbly, despite all his senses shouting at him to _RUN_ in the opposite direction. He drags his feet, almost tripping over when Tsukishima carefully looks anywhere but at him. There’s a wide space between them when he sits down at the very edge of the bench.

The game continues. The cicadas scream. The bright blue of summer burns through the doors. 

Tsukishima is watching Akaashi.

The hollow in Bokuto’s heart gapes ever wider like some shrieking, rabid void. For a half-instant, which will be later followed by several half-instants more, he thinks _if I could carve out every inch of myself and fill it with dark eyes and a quiet disposition, I would, I would, I would._

But if  there is one thing he cannot make reality, it is this.

**Author's Note:**

> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/tsukichuus) c:


End file.
